by John Ringo
"Okay," Christel said, suspiciously. "But if you're trying something . . ."
"For the last time," Megan said, letting a note of anger enter her voice. "We're in an impregnable fortress in the middle of Paul's territory. I'm not even sure where we are except up in the mountains. And I'm well fed and well housed. Running away would be stupid, impossible and pointless. I like my brain the way it is. And, let me note, so do you. Otherwise you're going to have to manage all this damned accounting. At this point the last thing either of us wants is me brain-drained."
"True," Christel chuckled. "Are you going to have enough time for this and all your other duties?"
"Yes, I will," Megan sighed. "All of them. Including . . ."
"Keeping Paul happy."
* * *
Cosmetics turned out to be easier than perfume. There were people who were making the former and if it was available anywhere in Ropasa it was available to "Paul's Girls." The expense of the material made her blanch when she got the bill, but in time she'd find a better, meaning less expensive, source. But within a week she had a supply of rouges, mascara, lip gloss and powders that the girls cheerfully dug into with abandon. So much abandon that she knew immediately that she had to find another source.
Perfume was another matter; no one seemed to be making it anywhere in Ropasa. Certainly not commercially. She felt a twinge of anger at being trapped in this damned harem; if she was back on the outside she could make a killing in the perfume business. But needs must and she instead ordered the materials she needed to make it, including a good workbench.
The material for the table was brought into the harem by Changed. They were not the half-wild orcs that made up the bulk of Paul's legions but heavy-bodied, dull-witted beings wearing gray smocks that took no note of the women who shrieked and hugged the walls as they came through carrying balks of timber and tools.
They were followed by another Change. He was short with preternaturally long arms and legs. He did notice the women but only to wink at them and leer as he followed the bearers into the room set aside for the perfumery.
"I want it over there," Megan said, pointing to a wall that got a decent amount of light.
"Build it, build it," the shorter Change said. "Sammy build it he will!"
The Change started pulling out tools with what appeared to be complete randomness but he worked incredibly quickly, all the time singing and humming to himself. In less than thirty minutes he had taken the raw wood and constructed a heavy-duty table without using a single nail or glue.
Megan watched the proceedings with interest. The Change had never bothered to measure anything but the table appeared to be perfectly level and was extremely sturdy. As he was sanding the top she shook it, but it barely budged.
"Build!" Sammy yelled. "Solid. Live longer than Sammy it will!" He smoothed the top as the bearers left the room to another cacophony of screams, then began applying lacquer to the whole thing.
"Well, Sammy, you did a very nice job here," Megan said. "I'm going to go see about some glassware."
"Build!"
She thought about the construction as she walked back to the dining room. Paul wasn't only building legions of fighters, but other specialties. She suddenly had a vision, as if she had been there, of rank upon rank of "Sammies" specialized for metalwork turning out weapons and armor for the legions. Of more Sammies building ships and engines of war.
She wondered, if Paul's faction won this war, if this was the fate of mankind. If, with the unlimited power and knowledge of Mother available, the New Destiny faction would turn everyone into narrow, specialized, insects. What, then, would be the fate of Megan "Sung"? Would she be specialized for providing sex to a wretched old pervert, so far beyond the bounds of sanity that he thought the women of his harem were happy to be here?
In all honesty she knew that most of the women in the harem were happy to be here. The life was far easier than anything since the Fall. And, as Marlene was only too happy to point out, all you had to do was lie on your back and spread your legs from time to time.
All.
And who was Sammy? Who had he been before he was Changed? What had caused them to Change him into this . . . builder-goblin? Had he angered some council member, one of their staff? Or had he simply been chosen at random. "Five orcs, next one's a builder . . ."
She shuddered at the thought and, deep inside, admitted that maybe there were worse things than having to fake enjoying being raped every few weeks. Even if the person they happened to no longer knew it.
CHAPTER SIX
Megan was in the still-room trying to convince rose water not to boil when Shanea came in.
"Paul's here," Shanea whispered.
"I guess I should go get dressed," Megan said, looking down at her spotted robe.
"And fix your hair," Shanea replied, pulling at her arm.
Megan turned down the oil lamp and went up the corridor. Other girls were rushing past her but she ignored them. Once in her room she stripped off the robe and started to pick up another.
"You probably should wear . . . you know," Shanea said, picking up the few decimeters of material.
"I probably should," Megan groaned. "God help me."
"Have you seen the one that Mirta made for Amber?" Shanea asked, helping her into the skirt.
"No, is it as bad as this?"
"Covers practically everything," Shanea answered. "In gauze. I don't think she's wearing it, though. And Mirta's not done with mine."
"I need to talk to Mirta about the fabric closet," Megan said, making a mental note. "I think she probably has some suggestions."
"Probably," Shanea said, taking Megan's hair down from the bun she'd had it in and brushing it out. "It's snarled."
"I can't keep it down around the flames; I'd end up burning it." Megan sighed and winced as the tangles were pulled out. "That will have to do."
"Everyone else is made up," Shanea pointed out.
"This will have to do," Megan stated.
The two girls walked down the corridor to the main room. Paul was still there, talking with Christel, who did not look happy. Paul looked, if anything, worse than the last time they had seen him and Megan noticed that his hands were worn and almost white. It looked, impossible as that seemed, as if he'd been washing clothes by hand, probably with lye soap.
"Ah, Megan," Paul said when she walked in the room. "I was wondering where you were."
"Megan has many projects at the moment," Christel said, subtly shifting to be between them.
"Surely none that require her attention right now," Paul replied, walking around Christel to take Megan's hand. "You look lovely."
Most of the girls in the room had made heavy use of the cosmetics Megan had procured and had donned their best outfits. She got vile looks as Paul led her into the room.
This time she tried very hard to if not enjoy the act, at least appear to. After the first "session" she had had nightmares three nights running. The worst was when she awoke with the face of her father over her. That had brought her as close as she had ever gotten to suicide. But she had tried to mentally prepare herself for the next time, knowing that with no way to avoid it, the better she could make it for herself, the better off she would be.
However, there was no foreplay or even time for her to prepare herself. Paul took her practically as soon as the door was closed, pushing her to the floor and thrusting into her, hard. She tried to loosen up, to moisten up, moaning, badly, as if she enjoyed it. But he came quickly and then rolled off of her, pulling on his pants quickly and not looking at her.
"I guess you like the outfit," Megan said. He'd pulled the halter away from her breasts and she'd managed to get the skirt out of the way of any outflow. But the outfit had never really come off.
"Maybe too much," Paul said, getting up and starting to retrieve his shirt.
As she wiped herself she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Paul," she said. "what's wrong?"
&n
bsp; "Nothing," he replied, dismissively.
"Was it me?" she asked with a plaintive note in her voice.
"No, sweetling," he said, sitting down by her. "It's just work."
"You look tense," she said. "Lie down."
"Why?"
"On your stomach," she replied, pushing him over. She rolled over and straddled his back, the skirt hiking up out of her way. She thought for a moment of simply hammer-driving his upper vertebrae, but she wasn't sure if his healing nannites would cure it. And whoever took over from him was sure to kill her, even if she succeeded. Instead, she took her thumbs and started digging them into his back, rolling upward with strong, firm, strokes.
"God that feels good," Paul exclaimed. He pillowed his head on his hands and rolled his back up. "Thank you."
"Now, what's so troubling at work?" she asked. "Don't you dare tense up on me," she added, pushing at the muscle that had bunched at her words until it had eased back down.
"It's nothing I think you'd be interested in," Paul said.
"Probably not," Megan said. "But verbalizing a problem is quite often a way for the unconscious to find a solution. You talk, I'll massage. Call it division of labor."
Paul laughed at that but was quiet for a while as she continued massaging his back.
"Minjie Jiaqi's aide killed him and took his Key," Paul said, finally. "He's willing to join with New Destiny, but he's putting too many conditions on it for me to feel that I can trust him. Minjie had been a friend for years. I don't feel happy just letting the son of a bitch get away with it."
"Good God," Megan said. "I hope the Coalition doesn't know."
"They don't," Paul replied. "We have a very good source close to their Council. But the problem is . . ."
"You're tensing up again," Megan warned. "Talk, don't tense."
"The problem is that if he feels he can go his way, the others will too," Paul snarled.
"Calm," Megan said. "Shuuuh. Talk it out."
"I'm holding a tiger by the tail, honey," Paul said, rolling out from under her and sitting up. "The council members that side with me don't understand the importance. Really, only Minjie ever did. Celine wanted to be able to make her damned abominations. Chansa . . . Chansa just wants power, direct power. The kind that the Council couldn't really wield before the Fall. Reyes has his . . . girls." Paul stopped and looked to the side, shaking his head. "Every time I come in here I think of the . . . the horror that they are suffering and it just makes me want to throttle that perverted bastard."
"You need some more massage, Mister Paul, sir," Megan said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him facedown again. "So how do you keep them in line?"
"Subtly," Paul muttered. "For one thing, all their guards are bound to me. They didn't notice at first and since they have I've been quite pleasant but very definite about it. The thing is, if one of them decides to defy me, I can take them out at any time. Furthermore, it's my guards who hold the power plants and my word that locks the shields. And I'm very careful to remain shielded myself. When I'm in here, no one can enter or leave and there's a shield up to ensure that. But this Patala bastard had all my guards killed and refuses to have them replaced. He doesn't have access to much power; I could destroy him in an instant. But I'm afraid if I do, it will cause the others to react."
"How was Minjie killed?" Megan asked. She lay down on his back, pressing her breasts into his muscles and rolling them around. "Now, doesn't that feel better?"
"Oh, very much so," Paul said, rolling over.
She mounted him, smiling sweetly, trying hard to enjoy it enough to get moist and started moving up and down. To her surprise she actually did start to enjoy herself, at least partially because she was looking at his unguarded neck. She clamped down on him and leaned in, stroking up and down, imagining cracking his hyoid bone and watching him choke to death on his own blood. When she realized she was finding sexual pleasure in the thought, she tried to think of something, anything, else.
"How was Minjie killed?" she asked, panting.
"You want to know now?" Paul gasped.
"Um, hmmm."
"Binary toxin," Paul said. "Part in his food, part in his wine. By the time the nannites could react, he was already effectively dead." He rolled her over and began thrusting until he came and collapsed onto her, burying his face against her neck.
"Kill him," she said, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back to where she could look in his eyes. "Have him assassinated. Quietly. Then make a deal with his aide. Don't fuck with me, I won't kill you."
"How?" Paul asked as he drew out of her.
She knew the answer but wasn't about to tell him.
"That should be easy to figure out," Megan said. "Have Celine do it."
"Hmmm . . ."
"There," she said, using a corner of a towel to wipe herself, "don't you feel better?"
"Yes," he replied, kissing her on the lips and running his tongue into her mouth. He needed to use a toothbrush and he smelled. "Thank you."
"I live to serve," she said, running her hands over the back of his neck. She knew damned well how she would kill this unnamed usurper. The only problem was escaping after she did it.
* * *
Paul returned over the next three days in quick succession, each time looking more worn and wan. Each time he chose at least one of the girls, sometimes two. Twice in the three days it was Megan, to her well-hidden disgust.
After the quick succession of visits Paul didn't come back for two weeks and then another long pause of almost a month. The last visit he bedded Ashly and Velva, one of Ashly's little clique, giving them something to talk about for days.
This pattern continued for months. From time to time one of the girls would begin showing signs of being pregnant and after a brief check by Christel she would be whisked out of the harem and into the confinement quarters.
Each month, Megan secretly prayed that she wouldn't be one of them. If she was taken out of the harem, away from her "experiments," away from the books that at least gave her a few hours of work during the week, if she was simply cooped up and fed like some damned brood mare, she was sure she would go completely insane.
She wondered, as the time passed, about the pregnancy rate. She had spent enough time on the outside to know that farmers' wives spent most of their time "knocked up." But over a six-month period, only two of the girls tested pregnant. A similar group on the outside would be at least an order of magnitude more efficient as "breeders."
But given Paul's infrequent visits, the rate was not so surprising. A couple of visits a month, one maybe two of the girls "taken" at apparent random and there was no way that the rate was going to be much higher. And he was getting to be in terrible shape. She had to wonder if his nannites were bothering to maintain his sperm count. It was just another of Paul's studied blindnesses. He had a "duty" to perform, even if he was performing it badly. The fact that this "duty" happened to be sex with voluptuous young females, none of whom had a say in the matter, was quite beside the point, of course. It was just another proof that Paul was absolutely crackers.
But, as the time went on, despite the many things she now had to occupy her, Megan looked forward to his infrequent visits. The disgust was starting to fade and that terrified her. By the sixth month of captivity, she was beginning to look forward to the act, to the sex. It no longer felt like rape and she was horrified that she was actually starting to enjoy Paul's company. He was smart, very smart, and when he did bother to talk he was interesting. The chance to know something of what was happening outside the harem was delightful. To listen to the intrigues that were going on among the New Destiny faction and, from time to time, to hear about the actions of the Freedom Coalition that fought against them.
What was even more horrible was, she began to enjoy him as a bed partner and he definitely seemed to prefer her to the other girls. The dreams continued but more and more they tended to be erotic rather than nightmares. Or, they were nightmares, because th
e dreams never really changed; she'd see his face above her, taking her. But the fear and anger and disgust drained out of them as time went by. The helplessness was still there, but something in her was changing. When she had him at her relative mercy, she no longer looked at him as a target. The plans were still there, remaining in the background, waiting the proper time, but she no longer thought of killing him when he was inside her. She wanted him. And she hated herself for it.
* * *
"Here it is," Megan said, holding up a small bottle filled with yellow liquid.
The still-room was now filled with odd scents, a complex of strong musk, rose water and an undertinge of sulfur. Ceramic bowls bubbled over charcoal braziers and a small complex of distilling equipment dripped liquid into a small glass jar. The end of the table was covered in a pile of spices and several sealed bottles were scattered around them.
Christel took the bottle and removed the stopper, sniffing at the liquid.
"Oh," she said, tipping some of the liquid out and rubbing it on her inner wrists. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed, sniffing at her wrist.
"It's not very potent," Megan noted. "The scent will wear off quickly. I need a secondary distilling apparatus to get it to be real perfume as opposed to a very light cologne."
"Can you do that?" Christel asked. She sniffed at her wrist and noticed that the scent had already begun to fade.
"Oh, yes," Megan said. "But it will have to be ordered from a glassmaker. The cost is well within our . . . well I've got it listed as 'fripperies' budget. The cloth to make clothes, board games, that sort of thing. We haven't really touched the budget on that. And the glassware isn't all that expensive."
"All right," Christel said, sniffing at her wrist again and touching some of the cologne behind her ears.
"Um. I'd sort of hoped that I could . . . use this to trade," Megan said. "I can't sew and I was hoping I could trade this with the other girls. Obviously, you have first dibs."
"Obviously," Christel smirked. "But that's fine. Just don't start too many fights, okay?"
